


Not Now, But Soon.

by Al_in_the_air



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Baby angel Harry navigating through his new life, F/M, Harry Potter Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Hinny, Insinuations of mental illness, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-War, background Ron / Hermione
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22270072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Al_in_the_air/pseuds/Al_in_the_air
Summary: Harry Potter and his attempt at a new, normal life. Whatever that means.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 38
Kudos: 112





	1. Soon

Harry woke with a start, in a blur of a hammering heart and clammy limbs and shaking fingers. Grasping for his wand in panic, he looked around the room with blurry vision for the threat that woke him, desperately patting his bedsheets as he searched for his glasses.

_It was a dream_ , he thought as his vision cleared, _just a really fucking accurate_ _and horrifying dream_. In the cruel reminder that even unconscious he couldn't escape this, his dream had been filed with flashes of green light skimming orange hair and dead bodies almost holding hands and the ghost of a laugh he could still hear. _Fucking great. The flashbacks have already started. Yay. Fun. Exactly what I need._

He must have slept then, he supposed, for at least a couple of hours as when he had staggered up to bed - all but held up by Ron and Hermione - the sun had just about risen casting a dull light over the wreck of the castle. Yet, the sun was streaming through the hangings of his four poster now, blinding him as, with tremendous effort, Harry managed to convince his body to stop quaking and his mind to stop racing.

He hadn't even managed to undress himself last night before passing out on top of his covers. He wished he had. The clothes he was wearing were gross and old and almost definitely covered in blood, most of which he wasn’t even sure belonged to him. He desperately needed a shower, to change out of these clothes, and eat. He was hungry, starving even and yet the thought of doing any of those things filled his body with dread.

The events of the last few days still hasn't fully sunk in but the weight in his chest and the effort it took to reluctantly move one foot in front of the other towards the bathroom felt like indicators of what was to come. He’d been through this before, loads of times, with Sirius and Dumbledore and Dobby, yet something felt different this time, he’d never grieved so many people at once before. Remus and Tonks and Fred and Colin, names that permeated his thoughts with every movement and made his heart skip as if falling down a trick step. He would be okay eventually, happiness would come, it had to, it would feel like hell but it would be okay in the end. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time and before he knew it he’d feel warmth again. Not now, but soon. He hoped at least. “A lot more people died this time” the voice in his head goaded, between naming the dead “and it’s all your fault.” Harry just shook his head as if the action itself could dispel the thoughts.  _ Absolutely not, I’m not dealing with this right now, _ because right now he needed a shower, and that was that.

As he crossed the room, his gaze roamed to Ron’s bed where he slept, wrapped around Hermione, a mess of entangled limbs and hair. They’d at least managed to change before bed, Harry might have wondered where they got their pyjamas from, if it wasn't so much effort. The sight did however have the corners of Harry’s mouth twitching and a loving thought of  _ fucking finally _ to cross his mind, he was glad this had happened, but that didn’t stop the feeling of sudden, painful loneliness and jealousy that hit him like a punch in the gut; because fuck, he wanted Ginny like that. Now more than ever he needed her comfort, her guiding hand, her floral scent, everything was just better with her around. 

That wasn’t a possibility now though, because there was no way Ginny would want to start things up again, not after he had broken it off with her, not after he had left her for months, not after Fred. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that she hated him even, that she blamed him for her brother’s death and anyway he wouldn't blame her if she did. It was his fault. If only he had given himself up sooner maybe.... He shook his head again. Shower. He just needed a shower.

The hot water hurt as it ran over his body, he was more bruised than he had realised, the remaining burns from Gringotts had blistered with some even busting under the flow, there were gashes on his skin, he’d done something to his leg, there was dried blood everywhere and every muscle ached. Yet nothing compared to the pain in his chest. Having caught sight of himself in the mirror as he undressed, Harry had finally seen the effects of the curse that should have killed him. His chest was a mess; a sharp, jagged lightning scar sat right above his heart this time and the skin around it was black, he was pretty sure he had a cracked rib and the whole area hurt, badly. 

Harry cried out as the water continued to fall, forever thankful for the permanent silencing charm on the bathroom door. He found this made it easier as the water continued to clean his wounds and ran, murky down the drain. At least while he was under the shower spray the physical pain seemed to push any other thoughts to the back of his mind, he didn’t have to think about anything else except the stinging and the pain and the water running red as it washed the previous night away. He could handle this, it was tangible at least.

Leaning against the wall for support and placing his face under the water, an odd thought crossed his mind. In any other context, it might have been comical, the drastic change in the scene he was in now compared to that of a year ago, when he was interrupting his revision sessions and quidditch practises in a stance just like this, spending blissful fifteen minute bursts immersed in fantasies of a girl he thought was unattainable. Even, just once, in their few weeks together, he had gotten the real thing in the quidditch changing rooms, she’d even-  _ stop that. Stop thinking about that.  _

He screamed again, because it was the only thing he could do.

It wasn’t until twenty minutes later that the water finally ran clear and Harry could will himself to move again. He still ached, maybe even more than before, but at least he’d cleaned the dried blood and dirt and sweat off himself. 

He thought of Kreacher after redressing himself, and though sure the house elf would bring him something to eat if he asked, but was also sure that the crack associated with summoning him would most definitely wake his friends from their well deserved slumber. He’d have to venture into the common room; and so he did, adorned in his invisibility cloak for fear of bumping into anyone. 

He needed to eat, that’s all. He’d feel better after he’d eaten. 


	2. Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is fine. Honestly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mental illness (specifically for PTSD and obsessive thinking) the poor kid has been through a lot yano.

The common room was, to his great relief, completely deserted and entirely unchanged in the time he had been gone. Gryffindor tower still stood in all of its red and gold glory, cosy and inviting with its familiar soft armchairs, thick throws and mahogany wood furnishings; a magnificent room once associated with inexplicable comfort and warmth and sunlit days in which Harry had never felt less at home.

Despite his solitude, he still took every measure to remain unseen. Draped in the invisibility cloak and curled up in the most secluded arm chair, Harry sat quietly bouncing his leg, illuminated only by the dying embers of last night’s fire.

He’d been right, Kreacher was more than willing to go and fetch his master food and had even sunk to his knees in uncharacteristic gratification of “the sacrifices and bravery Master Harry had shown.” This did nothing but make Harry ragingly uncomfortable and prompted several minutes of dread fuelled panic to plague his head. There would be more of this, more hand shaking, more shoulder slapping, and more declarations of appreciation that he absolutely did not deserve. Because this was his fault. All his fault.

Thankfully, the elf was extremely quick in procuring the meal, if not slightly overzealous with the selection he offered, and so Harry wasn’t left alone with his ruminations for too long. The tiny elf apperated back into the common room with no less than seven trays of breakfast foods circling him, looking incredibly pleased with himself as they magically settled on the coffee table.

“Kreacher did not know what Master Harry would want and so he has brought some of everything,” the elf explained unnecessarily. He wasn’t exaggerating, every breakfast food Harry could think of was right there in front of him, heaped high in true Hogwarts fashion. There were sausages, bacon, toast, black pudding, hash browns and eggs cooked every way imaginable; the sight alone made Harry’s stomach rumble in anticipation. “Kreacher did think of treacle for his master, but Master Harry must not have such things for breakfast.”

“Thank you Kreacher,” Harry said, a twinge of bemusement tugging at his lips.

“Does Master Harry need anything else from Kreacher?”

Harry, already with a mouth full of eggs and toast, was unable to speak, but hummed in appreciation and shook his head.

“Well then Kreacher thinks he will go back to the kitchens and help the other house elves. Master knows where Kreacher is if he need him,” and with a bow and crack he was gone.

It was still odd to hear Kreacher speak like this, with genuine politeness as opposed to distain and Harry almost thought of Sirius and what he would have thought of the drastic change in character. Almost. He instead managed to catch himself just in time, shake his head and focus his attention on nothing except the spread in front of him and the dull agony around his ribs.

The pain in his chest peaked with every movement as even raising a fork to his mouth caused him to flinch and groan audibly. Despite the common room remaining empty and the fact it only enhanced the pain further, Harry remained tightly wrapped in the cloak, taking comfort in the familiarity of the material and the safety of being invisible. It was a slight challenge to eat like this and occasionally a disembodied hand or two would slip out, lifting sausages or bacon into an unseen mouth.

Unfortunately, eating hadn’t made him feel better at all. The energy it took to lift his arm up and down seemed disproportionate to the task and he wasn’t sure he could actually taste any of it anyway, he was just mechanically lifting his fork from the plate to his mouth, chewing loudly, swallowing and repeating with whatever was nearest to him. He felt nauseous but he didn’t want to stop. The absence of Kreacher or throbbing in his torso to distract him would mean Harry would alone with this thoughts again and it was already taking all of his effort to just concentrate on the food on his plate and not on the storm raging in his head.

Ultimately, he was glad for the distraction when he noticed the rumble of footsteps above signalling bodies descending the stairs and heard rather than saw that it was Ron and Hermione, their frantic voices yelling his name down the spiral staircase.

“Yeah?” Harry shouted back, still with a mouthful of food, reluctantly revealing himself to the world again.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ron demanded, stumbling down the last step in haste to reach the common room. He was breathless and clearly distressed as his eyes sought out Harry, who was still half wrapped in the invisibility cloak, an odd image of floating limbs.

“Eating.” He replied obviously, gesturing to the small feast still in front of him.

“You prat,” Ron grumbled, though visibly relieved as he and Hermione collapsed into the sofa opposite Harry. “Stop running off on your own all the time! We woke up and we didn’t know where you were.”

“Sorry,” he said genuinely bewildered. “I just didn’t think you’d appreciate Kreacher waking you up.”

He hadn’t even considered that Ron and Hermione would worry about him but now his brain was filled with images of an empty bed and panicked friends and he instantly felt like a dick for not considering it sooner. Of course they were worried, the last time he had wandered off on his own he’d done so with every intention to die.

Suddenly all he could think about were the flashes of the forest, of his mum and dad, Remus and Sirius, a conversation with Dumbledore and the cries of those who had already lost so much, forced to watch a lifeless Harry be presented like a trophy in Hagrid’s arms. The images came without permission and once again he was watching the vivid eruption of green light on red hair and almost holding hands and the ghost of a laugh to rush his vision as if he were watching them happen, again and again and again, right where he sat. His chest had constricted, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. It was no good trying to banish the names of the dead from his mind this time. If anything, they seemed to grow louder with every attempt to silence them.

_Remus. Tonks. Fred. Dead because of you. Remus. Tonks. Fred. All dead, all you. Your fault. This is all your fault. You asked them to fight for you and they died. How many more have to die for the boy who lived. This is all your fault. This is all your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault._

“Harry?”

The voice seemed to pull him back to his senses. Hermione was studying him with that irritating look of concern she had, eyeing his shaking hands knowingly. “Are you okay, Harry?”

He glared at her. “Yeah, fine. What were you saying Ron?”

“Just reckon we should go find the others soon.” Ron mumbled, shoving a piece of toast into his mouth without fully finishing his sentence. 

Harry reached into the pocket of his robes and threw the marauders map to Ron, who opened it and scanned over the pages between mouthfuls of food. Hermione still looked like she was going to press on and Harry had the abrupt urge to get up and leave. He didn’t want to talk about it. He wasn’t going to talk about it. She opened her mouth at the same time as Ron, and any further questions died in her throat as he announced “Hospital Wing” and sprayed the table with crumbs.

It was Mr Weasley who greeted them ten minutes later, after Ron had finished eating and the trio wandered down to the familiar Infirmary.

The walk down had taken longer than usual, owing to the amount of wreckage that had yet to be cleared, constantly blocking their path and preventing them from going on, ultimately forcing them to turn back. It was miraculous really that, despite everything around him bearing damage, the foundations were intact at all.

Once again, Harry had insisted on keeping the cloak on, though it really wasn’t necessary. The castle was utterly still but his mind hadn’t been. Every step he had taken was permeated with names and faces, a mantra to the sound of his footsteps.

_Remus. Tonks. Fred. Colin. All dead, all you. Your fault. Your fault. Remus. Tonks. Fred. Colin. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault._

“Did you all manage to sleep?” Mr Weasley asked, leading them through the doors.

“A bit.” Ron replied, looking around the surprisingly empty room. “Where’s Mum?”

“She took George and Ginny home a few hours ago.” The father replied, clapping a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“And the others?”

Mr Weasley smiled softly and simply squeezed his hand tighter. “Don’t worry, they’re all fine. Charlie is just getting the once over, Percy nipped back to his flat to get some clothes and Bill and Fleur have just left, they were helping me speak to McGonagall about the, er… arrangements.”

A heavy silence filled the air. Of course there would be funerals, loads of them, how selfish of him to not think of this sooner. Harry wondered if they would be like Dumbledore’s and where everyone would be buried. There had been so many bodies in the great hall last night, would he have to go to the funerals of all of them? He didn’t want to. He wasn’t going to. He couldn’t show up knowing they’d died for him. That this was all his fault.

_Your fault, your fault. Dead because of you. Remus. Tonks. Fred. Colin. All the rest. All dead, all you. Your fault. This is all your fault. You asked them to fight for you and they died. They are dead because of you. This is all your fault. This is all your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault._

Hermione was watching him again, so intensely that he found it hard to look at her. He tried to smile but it came as more of a grimace. Thankfully he was spared any more of her concern as Ron gestured for the pair to follow him and his father to a makeshift waiting area and it wasn’t long until Charlie had joined the group, taking up the seat on his father’s other side and welcoming a sideways hug.

“Ah” Madame Pomfrey sighed, “last but not least. Go on, pick a bed”

Harry tried to protest, say that he was fine and didn’t need looking over, but it was futile; he had unwittingly winced as he stood, betrayed by his own pain. Ron and Hermione led the way to the three nearest beds while Harry tried to swallow down the bile that had risen in his throat. She was going to see it, the scar on his chest. She couldn’t, he wouldn’t let her. Yes, he needed his rib fixing, he was in agony, but he really didn’t want anyone seeing his chest like this. No one could know.

He tried to think of a way out of it. He hoped he could get away with telling her he was fine, but no such luck, Madame Pomfrey was already conjuring hospital robes and telling them to change.

“Honestly Ronald, am I really going to let you watch me get undressed?” Hermione tutted, waving her wand to shut the curtains around her.

“Yeah, n-no, course not. Sorry!”

Ron was seen first, then Hermione, each of them hissing and groaning loudly as their wounds were healed. It only took a few minutes each, but the anticipation had Harry’s legs bouncing and hands twisting.

He couldn’t think of any way he could convince Madam Pomfrey to not look at it, and just when he was thinking he could just out right refuse to let her when she entered, and his resolve vanished.

“Come on Potter, you should know the drill by now. Kit off.” She’d said the same thing to Ron, Harry had heard him jokingly reply. When Harry didn’t move, she continued. “I’ve seen it all before Potter.”

He did know the drill and with a heavy sigh and heavy arms, Harry did as he was told. Kicking up a fuss would only alert the others anyway.

Lying back on the bed and closing his eyes tightly, Harry tried to stop his hands shaking as the matron waved her wand over him and promptly began healing the remaining burns and minor cuts over his arms and legs. She’d poured dittany into gash on his leg, almost making him scream in pain. Some of it hurt badly, some of it didn’t.

She then moved her focus to his chest, still black, still scarred and gave a soft sigh. “That’s some serious spell damage you have there, Potter” Madame Pomfrey said quietly. “I really think you should get checked out at St Mungo’s by the specialist te-“

“No.” Harry had said firmly, far more viciously than he had intended. “I’m fine” he lied, “honestly. They’ll be busy enough as it is. I’m sure it’ll be fine in a few days.”

The matron looked at him with the same pitying concern that Hermione had had earlier, but didn’t press, instead she nodded and continued working.

His ribs were mended the next second, he was unsurprised to find it still hurt to breathe. 

“I really should insist that you go to St Mungo’s.”

“I don’t want anyone else to know about it. You can’t tell anyone.” Harry implored, his voice low and quiet.

“I won’t” Madam Pomfrey promised and took a step away from the bed. “You’re all done.”

Harry nodded and reached for his clothes, not waiting for her to leave before throwing his shirt back on. He was jumping off the bed and halfway into his jeans when he heard it, a faint “thank you” added in a sincere whisper.

He wished she hadn’t. He didn’t want thanks, why could no one understand this was all his fault?

_Your fault. Your fault. Your fault._

Harry followed shortly after, fully dressed and somewhat mended.

_Your fault. Your fault. Your fault._

“Right, home now I think.” Mr Weasley said, placing his hand on Charlie and Ron’s shoulders.

“Alright?” Ron asked, turning his head but not moving away from his father.

_Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault._

“Yeah,” Harry lied again, because he was, or he would be. “All fine.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for being so kind to the first chapter. As my first published piece here I was really nervous and genially couldn't believe that people wanted to read it! You're all great!


	3. Raw.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The week after the battle, things are still raw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out a lot longer and a lot more angsty than I initially intended. Usual warnings for mental illness, repercussions of death (including funerals) and just general DRAMA.
> 
> Enjoy.

They arrived back at The Burrow, falling through the fireplace one by one, welcomed home with an unnatural silence. While he was told everyone would just be asleep, Harry found this just unnerved him further. The house, so big and full and always loud with laughter should not have been so quiet so early in the day. There should be shouts and bangs and squeals of joy instead of stoic, painful silence.

The sun was streaming into the kitchen, casting bright light through the room, yet everything was freezing. The flowers on the kitchen table were wilting and the fire was dying. The very building seemed to be grieving.

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

He moved back into Ron’s room, much to the dismay of the ghoul who had made it his home for the past nine months. He was now clanging around the attic louder than ever in protest. 

Hermione sat on his bed, sifting through her little beaded bag and handing their possessions out. She kept eyeing Harry suspiciously as she did so but Ron’s hand on her thigh seemed to steer her attention away for long enough that she didn’t press again. 

When she was done, Ron walked Hermione out of his room, they were whispering outside the door but Harry didn’t bother listening. Instead he sat quietly on his camp bed and proceeded to unpack his pathetically small collection of belongings, he held the letter his mother had written to Sirius, taking comfort in her cursive as he was struck with a feeling he could only describe as homesickness. He wasn’t craving a place, not really, just a time in which he didn’t feel like this. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

Despite falling asleep in the early afternoon, the whole household slept until the following morning. 

When Harry finally rose, it was to the sound of clattering in the kitchen and the smell of bacon in the air and he told himself to get up and act like everything was fine.

He didn’t deserve to grieve in the same way those around him did, he hadn’t lost a brother or a son, of course he hadn’t, because he didn’t have any family left to lose. 

If they could pull themselves out of bed, so could he.

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

And so he did. 

He got up, he got dressed and he wouldn’t mope. 

There was to be a joint ‘celebration’ at Hogwarts for those they’d lost in the coming weeks, that’s what the letter from McGonagall had said. It was laughable, what about this was to be celebrated?

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

He had funerals to attend, fourteen to be exact, and he was asked to carry the coffin at 10. Some would be muggle; most would be wizarding, and all would be horrific. 

Ron and Hermione dutifully accompanied him to every single one, despite not necessarily being invited and them often taking up the whole day. They fought his protests with assurances that “we’re obviously not going to let you go on your own, are we?” 

He wished he didn’t have to attend them at all, but who was he to say no? They’d all died for him, for his cause. 

The fallen fifty they were calling them.

Harry wished they wouldn’t.

_ Your fault. They died because of you. This is all your fault. You asked them to fight for you and they died. This is all your fault. This is all your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

Remus and Tonks’ funerals were bad. He’d been asked to speak, to talk about Remus and his life, it wasn’t until he sat down and attempted to write that Harry realised how little he knew, how much more he wished he’d asked about. He settled for a generic eulogy with words stolen from, no inspired by, the funerals he’d already attended and ultimately read, monotonously, words he didn’t believe. 

He stood between Ron and Hermione through the service, the latter holding his hand and the former holding him up. 

He met Teddy, even held him briefly, though swiftly gave him back as he started to wail. He promised Andromeda he’d come visit, that they would meet properly, that he would be the Godfather he’d swore he would be. 

Another orphan, another baby boy who would grow up without parents because they fought for a boy with a lightening scar. 

_ Your fault. They died because of you. This is all your fault. That baby is going to grow up without parents and hate you for killing them. This is all your fault. This is all your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Tiny Teddy Lupin, destined for the life you despised. _

They got home after the wake, fuzzy from the Firewhiskey and settled into their new routine. As Mr Weasley was cooking them dinner and Ron and Hermione sat curled into each other, if it wasn’t for the intermittent sobbing, it could almost be normal.

Harry excused himself before dinner was served. He wasn’t hungry he said, too tired. 

Head under the too hot shower and silencing charm on the door, Harry finally let his emotions get the better of him, screaming and crying in a way he hadn’t since he was a child. He cried for Remus and Tonks and the son they loved yet would never get to know. He cried for all of them, every single one of the fallen fifty, every single one of their family members. He cried for Fred and for the entire Weasley family who couldn’t even look him in the eye anymore. He cried for himself, because he’d lost so much too. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

He played a game of chess with Ron and he lost spectacularly.

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

He teased Hermione. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

He wondered how Ginny was coping. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. _

He’d hardly slept, yet all he seemed to do amongst donning black was lie in bed and occasionally eat or shower. 

When he finally did manage to slip into sleep, Harry was awoken at least five times a night, bombarded with images he wished he could forget. While they were almost always those of Ginny or Fred or Remus and Tonks, occasionally scenes of snakes or graveyards or almost drowning in a pool of ice-cold water would surface too and he would jump awake, coughing violently as if he really had been choking.

The nightmares hadn’t stopped and suddenly, horrifyingly, were no longer exclusive to him being asleep. 

The roar of the fire and sparks of flame sent a barrage of vivid flashes of green light and red hair and almost holding hands and the ghost of a laugh to rush his vision like he was watching them happen, again and again and again, right where he stood.

His chest constricted and his new scar had throbbed. 

He was so exhausted, all the time, yet sleep just wouldn’t come. 

_ Your fault. They died because of you. This is all your fault. You asked them to fight for you and they died. This is all your fault. This is all your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

He didn’t want to intrude on the Weasley’s grief, every sight of red hair sent him into a spiral of guilt. 

He had seriously considered moving into Grimmauld Place a total of eight times, but he had actually packed his bag this time before he was inevitably talked down by Ron.

“Stop being so stupid, you’re part of this family. We all want you here.” Ron had said, taking his single bag of clothes and tossing them aside. “No one blames you, you know”

Harry sighed and nodded. He didn’t believe him, but it was nice to hear. 

_ Normal. He had to be normal.  _

“I just thought you and Hermione would appreciate having the room to yourself,” Harry said after a moment, flashing a strained smirk Ron’s way. He flushed the colour of his bright red hair and aimed a half-hearted punch to Harry’s arm in retaliation.

“Don’t let her hear you say things like that!” Ron warned, shoulders relaxing as he chuckled darkly. “She’s getting so embarrassed by it all.”

“Yeah well if she’s snogging you, I don’t blame her.”

“Dick.”

They sat in silence, comfortable in each other’s company for a while until Harry looked up, watching as Ron picked at a loose thread on his bed covers.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked, already knowing the answer. 

Ron let out a humourless laugh and continued picking. “No,” he said finally, his breath shaking as he stared at the out of date Chudley Canon’s calendar on his wall. “I just feel like complete shit.”  _ Pick, pick, pick. _ “Are you?”

Harry lay down, staring up at nothing in particular. He wondered if he should tell Ron everything, He wanted to tell him just how terrible he felt, he didn’t want to be alone in this anymore, but he was so he didn’t. “No” Harry whispered back eventually; afraid his voice would crack if he spoke louder. “But we will be soon.”

“Yeah... soon.” 

_ Pick. Pick. Pick. Pick. _

They sat in silence again and Harry just watched, clapping a comforting hand on Ron’s shoulder as the thread finally came loose.

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

“I reckon we’ll all feel a bit better after tomorrow,” Ron mumbled quietly to the darkness later that night. “Get some closure and all that. That’s what everyone keeps saying anyway, that wait is the worst bit. Once we get the, er, funeral out of the way, we’ll all start feeling better.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmured back, though he didn’t believe it. “I reckon so.” 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

He was under water, being dragged down between Grindylows and seaweed by a red haired figure; the Merpeople were singing a song of trepidation, waving ruby hilted swords his way and Harry couldn’t breathe. He was kicking hard against the hand that was pulling him down but he couldn’t break free. He couldn’t breathe. He was drowning. No one was there to save him. He looked down at his jailor, catching sight of his face caused Harry to scream and letting out the last of his breath, releasing a bubble of air into the water above him. Fred was laughing until suddenly he wasn’t. 

Harry woke coughing, gasping heavily for breath and half expected to find himself drenched in ice water. He wasn’t, just in sweat. 

Ron was still sleeping, open mouthed and snoring likely. He was too used to these night time cries to wake anymore and Harry was immensely grateful, he didn’t want to wake him so early. Not today. Not yet. 

Unwilling to go back to sleep for fear of another nightmare, Harry got up, pushing his glasses up and throwing on an old Weasley sweater in an attempt to warm himself. It wasn’t too early, it was getting light outside and he knew the rest of the house would be up soon, they had to leave by 10. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

He wanted to do something, he wanted to make today easier for everyone but he didn’t know how. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

Ultimately, he set about making breakfast after wading through copious amount of sleeping bags in the living room.

He doubted they would want to eat, but he hoped they would appreciate the gesture.

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

It was testament to the grief they were feeling that no one seemed to question the odd sleeping arrangements set out by Mrs Weasley. Unsurprisingly Harry was to bunk with Ron in his room, but they seemed to be the only ones in their usual space. Hermione was sharing with Fleur in Ginny’s room, while Bill, Charlie and Percy set up camp in the sitting room. George, having refused to step foot in his old bedroom, was now in the eldest’s old room, where Ginny was also spending most of her time. 

Despite the lack of space and unusually high number of guests, the twins had the door has remained firmly shut, unopened and preserved. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

As Harry flipped the bacon and stirred the pans around him, he let his mind wander slightly to Ginny and hoped beyond reasonable hope that she was doing okay. 

Ginny seemed to be the only one George would let in, and, according to Ron, had spent every day since the battle hauled up in his room, forcing him to eat and shower and dress every day.

He’d not had a chance to talk to her yet. He hadn’t even really seen her outside of a funeral setting since before the battle, except for the occasional meal; though he supposed she was avoiding him as much as he was avoiding her.

He didn’t want to add any more worries onto her by forcing her to talk to him. Though if he were being honest with himself, he selfishly didn't want to get her alone, to hear her say it or see the look in her eyes as she told him there was no chance of starting things up again. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. You killed her brother, you don’t have the right to be acting like this. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

The Weasley’s trickled in one by one, accepting servings of food with a grateful smile, though they ultimately left the meal untouched. 

No one spoke. No one knew what to say. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

He and Ron dressed silently in their black dress robes but Ron’s hands were shaking so much he couldn’t fasten the buttons on his own. Harry tried to smile reassuringly and reached forward to help his best friend with the fastenings, unsurprised to find his hands shaking too. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

Harry wanted to speak, to say something to make Ron feel better. He wanted to tell him everything would be fine but he didn’t know if it would be. 

Instead he stay close, hoping Ron knew he was there.

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

Ginny was shouting as they passed the room George was staying in, attempting to get her brother out of his bed and into his robes. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

She ultimately succeeded. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

The walk to the church was a short one, yet it felt insurmountably long. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

As the procession began, so did the tears.

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

Mr Weasley spoke about a son who was silly and always in trouble and who, above everything, was painfully, wholeheartedly loved.

Bill and Charlie talked about a brother they had teased and fought with, one who was bold and brave and that they were proud of. 

George said nothing. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

Mrs Weasley cried hysterically through the service as her husband held her tight. 

Harry held Ron tightly to his side as Hermione stroked the latter’s back, all three of them sniffing and allowing tears of their own to fall and shine bright against her cheeks. 

George was sobbing violently, wrapped up in a circle of siblings, though Harry doubted he could feel them.

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

The wake was busy, full of classmates and friends and family tucked away in the back room of a local pub. 

The room was loud as he and Hermione chatted quietly in a corner. Hermione was worrying quietly about Ron and Ginny and the rest of Weasley’s, wondering aloud how they would cope now the funeral was over. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

Harry asked about her parents.

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

Hermione told him her plans to find them.

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

Harry nodded along with the story. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

He didn’t take any of it in. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

The ruminations in his head were getting louder, more insistent. Harry kept shaking his head, trying to make it stop, to think about something else but nothing was working. Maybe it was the Firewhiskey making it worse. Maybe it was the stuffy room and loud voices causing it to increase. Maybe it was the sea of red hair. Most likely it was the grief for the one that was missing.

Harry listened to Hermione as long as he could before finally not being able to take it anymore. He needed to leave, he needed fresh air, he couldn’t sit here and look at them a moment longer. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

He said he needed another drink, that he’d see her in a minute. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

Sometimes the rational part of his brain would fight back against the thoughts but somehow this just seemed to make things worse.

_ It was Riddle, _ he tried to tell himself,  _ all Riddle. _

It didn’t quell it though.

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

The cold air hit his face, he could finally breathe again. He was finally alone and-

“Oh shit,” Harry declared, “so sorry!”

He had been so distracted by the pounding in his head that he didn’t notice them at first, perched there on the wall outside the pub. 

George had been sitting, hunched over with his head on Angelina Johnson’s shoulder, he seemed to have finally stopped crying and instead had taken to staring blindly into the distance, his eyes were still red with irritation. Angelina on the other hand, was letting her tears flow freely as she whispered comforts into his hair.

George looked up, taking in the black haired boy before him with a look of indignation flashing across his face. 

“Yeah,” he growled, “as you should be.”

“George, don’t -” Angelina started at the same time as Harry, genuinely taken aback, questioned “what?”

“You!” George shouted, staggering substantially as he did. “You should be sorry!”

Angelina tried to grab George’s hand and pull him back. He shook her off, taking another stumbling step towards Harry. He was close enough to touch, close enough to send a rush of panic down Harry’s spine, close enough to smell the drink on his breath.

“This is all your fault!” George roared, pulling out his wand and pressing it under Harry’s chin, forcing his head back uncomfortably. “All your fault.”

Harry had opened his mouth to speak, he was going to apologise but was pinned up against a wall before he’d found his voice.

“THIS IS YOUR FAULT! ALL OF IT! YOUR FAULT!”

Harry was vaguely aware of shouting beside them, and Angelina’s hands trying to pry George’s hands from the collar of Harry’s robes. It seemed to work for a second for his grip loosened and Harry could once again take a breath. 

“George…” Harry gasped, green eyes pleading into brown but he knew it was useless. He knew there was no reaching him now.

He looked around, Bill was striding purposefully towards them, likely having heard George’s screams from inside, and exiting the pub doors were Ron, Ginny, Percy and Mrs Weasley freezing at the sight. 

George let go momentarily, almost growling as he pushed Angelina away so forcefully she almost fell. 

Harry raised his hands in surrender. 

George raised his in fists. 

The hit to Harry’s jaw had his bone cracking so loud that it echoed horribly in the screaming silence. Harry didn’t raise his hands further than to hold his face. He could taste blood. He could see stars. He was swaying where he stood.

“George stop, he wouldn’t have wanted this.” Charlie said calmly, placing a hand on George’s shoulder, attempting to push him back. Bill and Angelina were holding him too, standing in a barrier between him and Harry.

“You can fuck off an’ all Charlie” George bellowed, venom dripping from his tone. “You don’t know shit! Flitting off to Romania for 8 years, only coming back when it suited you? What the fuck would you know?”

Charlie visibly recoiled, as if he was the one who had just been punched in the face. 

“Come on now, no need for that!” Bill protested, taking his turn to step in front of his squirming brother. “He’s right, he wouldn’t have-“

“STOP TELLING ME WHAT HE WOULD HAVE WANTED!” The words were screamed, his voice raw. “HE WOULD HAVE WANTED TO BE ALIVE!” 

There was a beat of silence in which no one seemed to breathe. 

Someone must have slackened their grip on George’s arm in shock because he finally broke free, striding forward so quickly that no one had time to react. He reached Harry before anyone could even register what was happening.

“And he would be alive” George spat, raising his hands again, “if it wasn’t for you.” 

He pushed Harry hard in the chest, hitting his scar as he did so. The pain he felt as the contact caused him to crash painfully into a wall. The pressure on his chest was too much, his vision was blurred, he felt like his new scar was going to burst open. He tried to take a deep breath but he found he couldn’t get any air into his lungs. He held his chest and groaned in pain. 

When he opened his eye Ron was at his side, saying something he wasn’t hearing. He was watching Angelina, Bill, Ginny and Charlie dragging George back as he screamed obscenities, thrashing against their restraints. He was screaming at Harry, screaming at Bill, screaming at anyone who would listen. 

The scene reminded Harry strangely of fifth year and Quidditch and the way him, Fred and George had all fought Malfoy right on the pitch, united in blind fury. 

He wondered when they had stopped fighting on the same team.

And all the while he was choking on his pain and gasping for breath, he felt a self-deprecating pleasure arise in his chest. Finally someone understood, finally someone had started to see that this was all his fault. 

George was right. Of course he was right. It  _ was _ his fault.

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

He allowed Mrs Weasley to mend his face, though her tears seemed to make the procedure take twice as long as normal. 

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

“I’m fine Mrs Weasley, don’t worry. He’s just upset.”

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. _

“Yes of course I’ll stay Mrs Weasley. Don’t worry”

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

Harry didn’t remember falling asleep but he must have, because he woke very suddenly, as he did every night, to a hammering heart and clammy limbs and shaking fingers. He stared up at the ceiling, trying to calm his breathing down as he fought the urge to grab his wand and search bleary eyed for the threat that woke him, knowing full well there was nothing it fight. Harry knew it was a dream,  _ just a dream _ , but that didn’t make the images less real. 

Once again the flashes of green light skimming orange hair and dead bodies almost holding hands and the ghost of a laugh he could still hear were playing through his head in an unrelenting reminder of all the horrors he had endured and the deaths he had seen. He deserved it really, for causing all this. 

The clock on Ron’s bedside table was illuminated by a strip of moonlight streaming through the curtains and though he squinted hard at the number displayed on the face Harry found it still irritatingly unreadable. Sighing and reaching out a hand over the edge of his camp bed, he patted the floor blindly in search of his glasses.

His body was exhausted, crying out for him to go back to sleep, yet he had fitfully been tossing and turning for what felt hours, unable to get comfortable, unable to shut his brain up. At some point in his restlessness he must have knocked his glasses off the bed, because he certainly hadn’t placed them on the ground.

His eyes took a second to adjust as his vision cleared and he turned his head again to look at the glowing figures of the clock. 3:57am.  _ For fucks sake _ . 

He was sick of this! Sick of waking up in the middle of the night, sick of feeling like shit, sick of everything!

_ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.  _

Finally giving up on sleep, Harry slipped out of bed as quietly as he could, throwing a jumper over his pyjamas and tucking his wand into his pocket before slipping out into the hallway and creeping downstairs. 

He hoped a cup of tea would calm him down, or maybe some food as he had missed dinner again, and he was just trying to plan what he would eat when he stopped dead.

The second Harry stepped into the kitchen doorway he saw her, suddenly unbothered by thoughts of food and tiredness, quite the opposite really. Every thought in his head was suddenly, irrevocably consumed by her, he didn't even pay the slightest attention to the rest of the room or check that they were truly alone, because  _ fuck _ she was finally right there, right in front of him. 

Ginny was curled up in one of the dining chairs, her arms around her legs and cheek to her knees, illuminated by the dying embers of the fire. To a normal bystander, she may have looked to be sleeping, she was so still but Harry knew better, he knew that she was awake. If he strained his eyes, he was sure he could see the stains of silent sobs along her cheeks, her eyes were glistening as they stared into the embers, blazing in the light. 

She really was so beautiful with her bright eyes shining and her red hair falling from its haphazard bun. The pale skin of her arms were slightly bruised and grazed but she was safe and breathing and the only real thing in the world, and all he wanted to do was scoop her up and hold her. 

Now more than ever he needed her floral scent and strong touch and in-between ruminations of blame and guilt, the truth that she couldn’t forgive him and no longer wanted him was all he could think about.

He knew he should leave, that she wouldn’t want him there, lurking in the dark and staring at her like this. He didn’t want to disturb her or intrude on her grief and, selfishly, he didn’t want to have the talk he’d been avoiding since he got back. He didn’t blame her, really, he didn’t. He had inflicted so much pain on her, put her through so much. He understood why she wouldn’t want him anymore.

He just needed a moment of indulgence first, just to look at her, to breathe her in. He had walked away from her once, he wasn’t ready to do so again.

Just as he was about to turn and leave, she lifted her head to look at him, those blazing brown eyes catching his. 

“Oh, hello.” Ginny said, sniffing quietly and hastily turning to rub her eyes. 

“I was just leaving.” Harry mumbled, turning to leave again.

“Don’t be daft. Cuppa?” she asked, gesturing to the pot on the table. Harry nodded and was about to open his mouth to tell her how he took it when Ginny interrupted, speaking for him. “Is it still milk and a sugar?”

He nodded again, startled by her memory and watching as she went about making his drink, smiling warmly as she passed the mug across the table. 

“Thanks,” he whispered, embarrassed that the gesture had caused a lump to rise in his throat. 

They sat together in silence for a while. Ginny tracing the rim of her mug while Harry sipped at his. 

The moonlight outside was casting shadows over the overgrown garden and illuminating the shed outside that harry knew housed the family brooms. He wished he could just get on a broom and fly away. 

He had spent the last week hearing people tell him how brave he was, some even going as far as to call him an  _ inspiration _ , yet here in this moment? He had never felt more like a coward. 

_ Talk to her, just talk to her.  _

“I’m sorry about George, he didn’t mean it.” Ginny said softly, still not looking up from her mug.

Harry let out a hollow laugh. “Yeah he did. It’s fine, honestly. He just said what everyone else was thinking.” 

“I wasn’t thinking it.” Ginny murmured. She was trying to catch his eyes with hers, she looked like she was going to reach a hand towards him but ultimately thought better of it. 

Harry didn’t mean for it to happen, he really didn’t mean to. He didn’t know if it was the lack of sleep or emotional exhaustion or the warmth in Ginny’s eyes but something seemed to let the snap. Before he knew what he was doing he was up and pacing and ranting on, speaking more than he intended to yet unable to find the will to stop. 

“I wish people would stop saying that. It was my fault. All of it. Every single person that died, that was my fault Ginny! Why can’t anyone understand that? I should have done more, I should have known better. I should have - should have, I don't know cast more shield charms, or figured out where the diadem was sooner. I should have known what I would have to do. I should have given myself up sooner. Fifty people died Ginny. Fifty. All of them because of me! It was my fault, all my fault. I mean fuck, Ginny you almost died!.”

This went on for a while, Harry ranting on and on, a persistent rhetoric of every fear he’d had in the last week and all the while Ginny sat quietly and listened. She didn’t interrupt, or disrupt his claims, just sat and listened while her heart broke for the second time that day. 

As the tyraid of speech finally died down, Ginny stood, reaching out for Harry’s hand. 

“Harry, listen to me. No one, not a single person, not even George blames you for this. And do you know why? Because it wasn’t your fault!” She was pleading with him, moving her hands to his cheeks and forcing him to listen. “It was Tom, all of this, everything was Tom and his stupid band of death eaters.”

“I should have done more.” Harry whispered. “I should have tried to save them.”

“But Harry, you did! You died for us, for the love of Merlin!”

Harry let out a breath, suddenly aware of how close they were. 

_ She wasn’t angry. Maybe she didn’t hate him. _

“You and your stupid, noble reasons.”

Finally, it was Ginny who was brave. Reaching up close the gap between them, she flung herself at him, her arms locked around his neck and his instinctively wrapped around her back, gripping as tight as they were able, even lifting her off the ground in his desperation to just  _ hold _ her. 

He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe this was real. 

He had grown in the last year and it wasn’t until he held her like this that he truly realised how much. She felt so much smaller in his arms than when he last held her in her bedroom all those months ago but still stronger than he could have ever imagined.

Harry slowly pulled away, just enough to lower Ginny’s frame to the ground again, just enough so he could look into her beautiful eyes. In years to come there would be debates about this moment, about who kissed who - who leaned in, who made the first move - but it would always be futile, because had there been anyone in the room, watching the exchange, they wouldn’t be able to tell either. There was no conscious thought, no planning it, no concern for the fact that anyone could walk in and see them, it just happened; they collided and kissed like they had never before, so unlike their first kiss in the common room, nor like his birthday, when the desperation between them manifested into roaming hands and restlessness. This kiss was their reckoning and Harry hoped he could articulate everything he wanted to say into a single movement of his lips against hers.

He wanted to tell her how sorry he was for leaving her, for what happened to Fred, for all she’d been through in the last year. He wanted to berate her for daring to run from the room of requirement and praise her for the fight she put up. He wanted to tell her about the map, how he’d watched her dot every night and about the forest, how his last thought before death was of her, was of this. He wanted to tell her that he was so fucking grateful that she was there, breathing, safe and in his arms again. That he never thought he’d get to feel her weight against him like this again. That he was proud of her. That she was so clever. That seeing that flash of green skim her hair was the worst thing he’d ever seen and scared him more than Voldemort ever could. But most notably, most importantly, that he was sure he was absolutely and unequivocally in love with her.

Their lips were moving feverishly, desperately, against each other. It was the best thing in the world. She was the best thing in the world.

It felt like days before they finally pulled apart, foreheads touching and lips slightly swollen. Harry couldn't stop looking at her, eyes wandering over every inch he could see in disbelief that she was truly okay. 

“Harry?” Ginny whispered, with such fire in her eyes she could have convinced him to do anything. 

“Yeah?”

“It wasn’t your fault.” She said it with such ferocity, that he actually, momentarily, believed her. 

At a loss of what to say, he settled with “I missed you so much” while tangling a hand in her hair and kissing her again. 

“I’ve missed you too.” Ginny whispered, once they parted

Harry wrapped her up in his arms again and held her as tightly as he could. She reciprocated by wrapping her arms around his waist and holding on with more force than he had expected, so much so her head knocked hard against the very center of his chest, causing him to wince.

“Fuck i’m sorry! I didn’t mean to.”

Harry panicked, no she couldn’t know. “Oh it’s nothing, just where George pushed me earlier it's all fine.”

“Can I see it?” Ginny asked, already reaching for the hem of his jumper. 

“See what?” He replied, feigning innocence.

“You have a new scar.” She said, matter of factly. 

“Do I?”

“Yeah. You do! Take off your top.”

“Ginny Weasley, your mother is home.”

She had a look in her eye Harry recognised, something akin to mischief. He swallowed down the bile in his throat.

“I dont care,” she said. “Take it off.”

“I'll tell your mum! I'll run now and tell her and Bill and Charlie that you're accosting me in the kitchen!”

Ginny simply looked bored, folding her arms and leaning her weight on one leg. “I’ll see it eventually. Come on. Off.”   
She had him, she knew she did because he sighed lightly and pulled at the hem of his shirt. 

She seemed to examine it for several hours, not with the look of pity or horror he had imagined, but with a gentle curiosity that manifested in the crease above her brow. Her fingertips traced softly over the thin and jagged line of the scar, her thumb brushing over his bruising with a tenderness he’d never seen before. Harry found he didn’t mind this as much as he’d feared he would and his breath and heart seemed to steady with every stroke of her fingers against his chest. 

Eventually she sat back in her chair, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth and rolling her eyes in theatrical exasperation. A playful smirk tugged at her lips as she spoke. “Well who’s going to tell Romilda Vane?”

“What?” Harry spluttered, almost laughing, because that had been the last thing he’d expected her to say. 

Ginny threw her hands in the air dramatically and fixed him with a look that said ‘isn’t it obvious?’ 

When Harry continued to stare bewilderedly at her, she simply sighed and said “well it’s not exactly the Hungarian Horntail I promised her is it? She’s going to be so disappointed.”

Harry really did laugh this time, and so did Ginny who was giggling wildly at her own joke. It was delirious and hysterical and a sound Harry wished he could hear every minute of every day for the rest of his life.

Despite themselves, despite everything, they were laughing, a concept that had felt impossible until that moment and suddenly had everything feeling lighter. They laughed because they needed to, because they could and because for the first time in years there was hope that the world could be better; that the world would be better. They were still so still broken, it was hard to imagine a time in which they weren’t, but in that moment at least one thing was mended. They had each other again and that was something.

  
  



End file.
